


Breaking and Entering

by Beanwhile



Category: Casino Royale (2006)
Genre: Anal Fingering, F/M, Fingerfucking, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Other, PWP, Pure PWP, Rape/Non-con References, Relationship is whichever you pick, explanation in the notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 02:11:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856576
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beanwhile/pseuds/Beanwhile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Not that he could do any serious damage on his own - he is not a fighter, and his brilliance lies in the battle of black and white kingdoms, rather than the one of muscles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Breaking and Entering

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn't really satisfied with my little review of Casino Royale so I went into full-blown second person narrative fanfiction. I'm very glad the movie pushed me out of my comfort zone and made me do it, I've been toying with the idea for a while. Since it's a rather peculiar form of narrative you get to choose how to read it, it could easily pass as Bond/Chiffre or you/Chiffre or whatever. Your comments and feedback will be greatly appreciated.

                Luck is something that only happens in movies and you won't let this opportunity slip. He's kneeling and laughing, and you're laughing with him, and it echoes in the enclosed space. He stops before you, maybe because he hears the audible rip, maybe not, but it's too late for him now. Your legs are free and you kick him in the shin with all the force you can gather in your position. It is not so much the pain, but rather the sheer force of your kick that topples him backwards, and he hits the ground cursing. The transition between this second and the next is blurred to you now, but if you think back later, you will realize that evolution and instincts had kicked in and driven you; the rush of adrenaline had jolted you on your legs and dulled the pain when you forced one of your hands free from the restraints.

                You straddle him before he has the chance to get back on his feet and punch him in the jaw to make him dizzy and secure yourself the dominant position. You slip your other hand from the rope and tie his wrists together above his head. He buckles his lower body and you easily yield, tempting him into a momentary triumph, but it's only to drag him and tie the rest of the rope to a thick pipe behind his head, ensuring that he won't move around, not to mention try something else with his hands.

                Not that he could do any serious damage on his own - he is not a fighter, and his brilliance lies in the battle of black and white kingdoms, rather than the one of muscles. The corner of his faulty eye is bleeding again.

                You are pretty much done here and you're ready to go when you remember what he said, that he didn't understand elaborate torture. Maybe this is the perfect time to give him a little lesson. Your gazes lock - he's dormant now, save for the occasional twitch of the leg you kicked. His head is tilted sideways so that the blood could trickle down his face and not enter the eye, but his stare is like iron and he's not even blinking. Even when dominated, he is ever so cocksure.

                His image of the genius mathematician is completely ruined now. His hair is messy; a lot of it is plastered to his forehead and temples by the excessive sweating. His eyes are frantic, and his poker-face is twisted into a grimace of loathing and discomfort. He's breathing through his mouth, puffing actually, yet his parted lips are moist and shining. He bares his teeth at you.

                You clutch his jaw, tilting his head slightly up, and lean against him, bringing your faces close together. From this close something tickles your nose and you take a deep inhale. His natural scent has mixed with the exquisite cologne and the combined smell seems to fill the inside of your head, giving you a hard time keeping your face straight. It's a nice smell and you find yourself thinking that you wouldn't mind inhaling it often, even on a daily basis. He spits in your face, hissing something in his native language.

                You let go of his face and slap it with measured strength, earning yourself another hiss, after which you wipe the spit from your face with the back of your hand. This seems to seal your decision; you slap him one more time, almost as if it was a joke. You shift your position, going a bit backwards, so that your legs are pressing at crucial points, rendering him limp and completely unable to buckle against you. You incline again towards him, tracing with your fingertips the scar over his eye, the cutting cheekbones, the jaw line, after which your fingers hook onto his shirt. You tug with all your force and the fine material rips, sending buttons flying everywhere.

                You don't need to look him in the eyes again to know what is happening - his mask is slipping, showing the pushing edges of fear, the fear of the unknown. Dull pain you can cause even when he's clothed, and there are no sharp things you keep in handy - what is then to happen to him?

                The ruined shirt reveals the magnificent bodyscape of his chest, covered with fine hair, yet not the least bit unsightly, and the rippling muscles of his abdomen, now tense from the stretching position. He is not a fighter, but he has, you think with irony, kept his body in good shape. You want to stay like that, to take a few minutes to admire, but even with this distraction from the plan, time is of the essence and you proceed with unbuckling his belt and tugging down his pants, tucking the crumpled material beneath your knees, making his escape virtually impossible. 

                All that is left now are his black tight boxers and it's a pity that you have to remove them - there is only so much appeal in a hard cock, restrained in tight underwear - but access to his ass is crucial for your little revenge.

                "Aren't you taking the Stockholm syndrome a bit too seriously?" he gives you a crooked smile, and his voice is sharp and mocking. "I'm not sure you’ll have the time to know me intimately before-" he continues, but stops mid-sentence as your hand give his limp dick a firm stroke. He bites his lips from the pleasure, but his eyes are just as menacing.

                This is all the attention he is going to receive there anyway. You incline against him yet again, and both your hands travel up over his tense upper body. He tries to buckle, but you've pinned him hard against the ground and both of you know it. It is a good distraction for him, however, and you clutch at his cheeks with an iron grip. His slackened jaw tries to tense again, but the pain from biting his cheeks on the inside is too much for him, he who is not used to physical pain, and he is forced to keep his mouth open.  He realizes what you've done when you insert the fingers of your other hand in his mouth, but it's too late and he can't bite you. He starts breathing heavily, trying to dry his mouth, and his mind is probably working on all the disgusting things to aid him in this, but his body betrays him. The moment you swipe the pads of your fingers around the cavity of his mouth he starts salivating, and perhaps it is only your own imagination, but it's a lot; you dip your fingers in the pooling, occasionally holding his tongue between your fingers, like a fat cigarette. He tries to bite, but he only manages to leave dents in your fingers before the pain in his bitten cheeks forces him to relax his jaw again.

                You shove extra hard in his mouth, causing him to gag and cough, and then take out your fingers, and let go of his cheeks. His saliva is thick, yet it drips down over his bottom lip and chin, over the chest and a drop near his bellybutton while you swiftly take your fingers to their new destination. Realization hits him hard and he tries his best to buckle and get you off him, and fails completely. His eyes are stormy with disgust and hate, and the knowledge that he's helpless.

                Your index finger coats the impossibly tight muscles of his buttocks, forcing your way into his entrance. You can hear his teeth gnashing while he's straining to keep you out, but he can only do so much.

                "You do know that the tighter you are, the more it will hurt." you tell him, and your voice is like a velvet coverlet on a bed of nails.

                Your finger reaches its destination and you start making miniature circling motions over it. An involuntary spasm jolts his lower body and his buttocks slacken; you take the opportunity and insert your middle finger, actually breaching the ring of tight muscle. There is a sharp inhale on his side, and he clenches again, but your finger is already in and he won't be able to shove it out. The tightness around your finger is simply amazing. His attempts to clench slacken into spasms, and you take the opportunity to shove deeper.

                The spasms increase in intensity and he tries bucking again, alas to no fortunate for him result - your finger goes deeper and deeper inside. The heat and tightness is amazing and send shivers down your spine - his defenselessness and your physical power over him make your head swim.

                You slowly start to slide your finger out, and he relaxes in desperate hope that it will ease the process; and of course you use the opportunity to shove in deeper again. A shiver and a gasp of surprise make it obvious that you've reaches his prostate. You don't shove further; only move your finger back and forth, teasing him with a mere hint of touch on a spot so sensitive. He buckles again, trying to shove you away - he knows what you're aiming at and he knows his body will get you there. But you're too strong for him and eventually he stills, only his eyes are mad with panic and hate. The blood from his eye has coagulated on his face.

                You cannot help a crooked, triumphant smile as you slowly slide your finger out, making it possible to add the index one as well. It feels tighter now, yet it is slick enough to grant you free movement without even causing him the discomfort of dry friction. He hisses and tries to get you off yet again, but in his despair he shoves himself directly onto your fingers. You can tell that there had been more pressure applied this time on his prostate because he freezes and the tiniest of moans escape his clenched teeth.

                "It gets better." you say to him, and it's a promise.

                You slowly slide your fingers out and then again in - now you know his depth and will make sure to give him the biggest tease of his life. Setting a very slow tempo, your fingers make small scissoring movements whilst sliding in and out of him. He gives his best to remain still during your ministrations - his brows are furrowed and his thin and still so moist lips are pursed into a pink line of restraint. Sweat still drips from his forehead, plastering the rest of his hair to his skin. His body temperature rises tangibly, and his ass slowly relaxes, allowing for braver strides of your fingers. You prop your arm on the floor for support and you speed up the rhythm.

                It's a pleasure to look at the conflict going on his face - he's determined to stay collected and spiteful, yet more and more often his brows furrow from something else, and his lips slacken, allowing little gasps to escape his throat. You keep teasing him, never even brushing over his prostate, and you know that it secretly maddens him more than anything else. He tries to secretly shove himself against your fingers, but those movements of his are easily anticipated and thus futile. He throws his head back in frustration and hisses in his native language.

                "Is it this easy to fuck proper language out of the great Le Chiffre?" you mock him and shove your fingers inside of him as hard as you can. His back arches into the melting pleasure and he moans, loud and shameless. Your ears ring with the unadulterated heat he actually emits, both from his body and his audible "protests."

                "Does it feel good? I can be very nice if you beg me."

                "Fuck you." he spits out, but his voice is twisted and mewling.

                "Rather, fuck you, and yes, I am doing a great job at it. Just look- well, listen to yourself."

                You collect your fingers together and start thrusting harder and faster, yet missing completely his prostate. He tries his best to stay still and quiet, yet his body betrays him. Quiet whines escape his clenched teeth and his hips are jolting every now and then when you brush close to his sweet spot. His cock is completely hard from the stimuli now, and you're tempted to tease, but the desire to make him come without touching his cock is stronger and you keep your other hand in place.

                "Beg me and I will stop... after you come all over yourself." you suggest with feigned courtesy.

                He hisses in response and clenches, but it ends up in more spasms around your fingers. You can feel the first hints of tiredness in your muscles now, but you will stop for nothing, especially now that he is so obviously close. You keep the fast rhythm going. After a while he indeed starts giving in: his hips jolt more often and he breathes out loud, panting and moaning.

                "I..."

                "Yes? Please speak up, I can't hear you over all those noises you make." you tell him, keeping up the fake kindness. "All you need is to beg, you know, and this will end on a very positive note."

                "No! Never! Ah! Ahhh!"

                "Beg!"

                "No!"

                "Beg!"

                "PLEASE!" he wails, and you don't wait for another invitation.

                You shove your fingers as deep as you can, hitting his prostate hard, and you shove and rub against it as much as you can. He cries out and tilts his head to hide his face in the sleeve of his tied arm, but his back arches beautifully and then he's coming hard all over himself, in big while spurts, staining everything from his belly to his neck. He rides out his orgasm with grunts while you still continue to shove deep inside of him, until he's spent and trembling from being oversensitive.

                You gradually slow down, secretly enjoying the spasms that still grasp and slacken around your fingers. There is an obscene, wet noise when your fingers leave him empty, and you wipe them in his pants. You use the same hand to prop yourself against the floor, while you lift the other and slowly sweep the sticky white stains from his belly to his chest. Your little finger accidentally brushing over the tip of his cock makes him to shiver violently.

                He uncovers his face from his sleeve and attempts to give you a spiteful look, but you ignore that completely and shove your come-coated fingers in his open mouth, giving him a taste of himself. You know that he won't attempt to bite you now, after all this gnashing and clenching - his jaw is sore and his teeth probably feel badly strange. You wipe your fingers in his tongue and can feel him swallowing meekly.

                "Had they known your talents in the erotic they would never even attempt killing you. I'll make sure they are informed of your natural talent." you murmur almost lovingly.

 


End file.
